When Mary Holds Your Hand
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "Mary could scarcely bear to leave him. He seemed too good to be true." Mostly fluffy scenes of Dickon and Mary together, set around the time of the book.
1. April Showers

I've always thought that Dickon and Mary are just the cutest couple ever. So many fanfics about them seem to be set when they're older, so I wanted to write one where they're still kids. This is mostly inspired by the 1993 film and takes place shortly after it.

Caesar's Palace Shipping Week 2016 - Day 1: _Whisper_

* * *

 _When the day is gray and ordinary_  
 _Mary makes the sun shine bright_

The April rain fell steadily, and the gray, overcast skies above the moor showed no signs of clearing. Lord Craven looked sympathetic but shook his head when Dickon knocked on the main door to Misselthwaite Manor and asked for "Miss Mary."

"I'm afraid it's raining too hard for you children to—" But he was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps, as Mary came flying down the staircase, her pigtails streaming out behind her. Her brown eyes were eager and shining, as if she'd been waiting and listening for Dickon's knock.

"We're just going out for a walk, Uncle, Dickon and I," she said breathlessly, grabbing the biggest umbrella from the umbrella stand beside the door. "We'll be fine. We don't mind a little rain."

"Well, all right, but don't go far," Lord Craven called after them, but Dickon and Mary were already out the door and on their way down the main gravel path across the grounds. His voice was already just an echo from some dry, indoor world that they'd left behind.

The soft _pitter-patter_ of the rain on the umbrella was like a chorus of whispering voices, and as if to imitate it, Mary and Dickon spoke in whispers, too.

"Thy uncle answered the door hisself," Dickon said to Mary, astonished. "He didn't have one of the servants do it."

"I know, isn't it funny?" Mary whispered back. "He's started doing things like that lately."

They huddled close together under the umbrella, their arms brushing. Mary and Dickon loved to walk in the rain. It was like walking through their own private world. The grounds of the manor looked so different in a rainstorm, and they always had it all to themselves. Sometimes, it was hard for just the two of them to do anything without Colin, but Colin didn't like the rain.

"Let's go down to the duck pond," Mary said, "then to the yew tree."

"Aye, let's," Dickon agreed.

The rain ran off their umbrella in streams as they walked to the duck pond on the lower grounds. Mary had forgotten her rainboots, and her shoes and stockings were soon wet and muddy, but she didn't mind. How could she mind anything when she was walking under an umbrella with Dickon, with his warm arm brushing hers?

"Do your duck-call, Dickon?" Mary asked when they reached the pond, and he did. Dickon's duck-call was so good that the ducks all waddled ashore at the sound of it. They liked the rain, too. They frolicked and hunted for worms in the puddles, and Mary and Dickon watched and laughed.

From the duck pond, they walked to the yew tree — one of the few trees that grew on their bare, lonely moor. Its branches were so thick and wide that they were almost completely sheltered from the rain as they folded up their umbrella and sat beneath it. Mary had forgotten her rainboots, but she had remembered to slip two boiled eggs from the kitchen into her apron pocket, and Dickon had two apples tucked inside his jacket. They divided the food and ate in happy silence, watching the rain fall over the moor. It was the simplest sort of food, but something about eating it together under the yew tree made it taste delicious and exotic.

They never spoke to anyone about watching the ducks or eating under the yew tree. "Oh, we just went walking about," Mary always answered, if Colin or Uncle Craven asked where they'd gone. It made their rainy days all the more exciting to keep them secret.

Mary looked a bedraggled fright when she returned to the manor house — her hair damp, her shoes and stockings muddy, her skirt covered in wet grass from sitting beneath the yew tree. "Fie, Miss Mary," Martha scolded, "thou looks worse than a wet cat." But Mary's arm was still warm from where it had touched Dickon's, and she just smiled dreamily and wandered upstairs, feeling like a queen.


	2. Spring Morning

Caesar's Palace Shipping Week 2016 - Day 2: _Shout_

* * *

 _Ain't it a glorious day?  
Right like a morning in May_

The morning dew was chilly on Mary's bare feet as she ran across the lawn towards Dickon, who halted Snow and turned her way when he saw her, surprised. Dickon always rose early — he liked to go for a walk or ride Snow before sunrise, when the world was still so sleepy and peaceful — but he'd never seen Mary awake at this hour.

"What's thou doing up?" he asked her, when they were close enough to talk.

Mary's cheeks were flushed pink, despite the early-morning chill. "I was too excited to sleep," she said, her words tumbling out in a rush, "and I saw you ride past and had to come out and talk to you." She paused and collected herself. "Dickon, Colin and I talked to his father about May Day last night, and he said he would take us! He's going to drive us out to Westerdale in a carriage, and he said you were welcome, too! Oh, won't it be fun? Colin's never been to a May Day either, you know. Now we can all go together and see the May Queen and the dancing and the maypole."

Mary chattered on excitedly, but Dickon didn't hear her. A strange feeling crept over him.

May Day was only a week away. Mary had never been to one before, and he'd been telling her all about the festivities in Westerdale, the nearest village across the moor. He'd planned to take her there himself, both of them riding Snow, and show her everything. He'd even been helping Ben Weatherstaff with the groundskeeping, and earned enough money — two whole shillings —to buy them each a toffee apple. He'd pictured the two of them walking hand-in-hand together through the May Day gaiety, eating toffee apples, and Mary smiling that little sideways smile at him, the one she'd given him when they first met.

But now, the picture in his head was all different. Colin and Lord Craven being there changed everything. Why, they had more shillings than they could count. They would be able to buy Mary anything that she wanted. The two shillings that Dickon kept in a box at home, that he'd worked so hard for, suddenly seemed paltry and small. And he would have to call her "Miss Mary" in front of her uncle, too.

"Dickon?" Mary asked, interrupting his thoughts, and he realized that he was frowning. The hurt, puzzled look on Mary's face made him feel worse. She'd looked so happy just a moment ago. "What's the matter, Dickon? I thought... don't you want to go to May Day?"

Dickon sighed and looked away, petting Snow's mane. Why were animals so much easier than people? He did like Colin, but sometimes, he grew tired of him always tagging along with them. "Aye, of course I do," he said slowly. "I just... I thought 'twould be just the two of us."

Mary pursed her lips. "Well, I think Colin ought to come with us. You know he hasn't any friends but us."

"And he never _will_ ," Dickon argued, with an edge of anger that Mary had never seen before, "if he only hangs about with us all the time."

But Mary was firm. "We can't let him go alone. He's nervous enough about going to May Day as it is."

"Thou said he was _excited_!" Dickon argued, raising his voice a bit. It sounded louder with the grounds so quiet. It was still just the two of them, but the eastern sky was turning from blue to pink, and soon, Miss Medlock and the other servants would be waking up and starting their day. Dickon felt grateful that nobody was near to overhear this, the closest that he and Mary had ever come to a quarrel.

"He _is_ , but he's nervous too, I can tell. You know how he gets twitchy."

Dickon considered this. Colin did have a lot of nervous tics. Dickon and Mary had gotten used to them, to the unnatural pallor that still clung to his skin from being kept indoors for most of his life, to the way that he looked so younger than them, even though they were all the same age. He _was_ younger than them, in a way, Dickon suddenly realized — that was why Mary expected him to understand.

"Besides," she went on, "this is the very first May Day for Colin and me. I want us all to be together for it."

"Aye, thou're right," he agreed. He felt very grown-up now, as if he and Mary were a father and mother talking about their son. "'Twould be more jolly with the three of us. We'll all to go May Day together."

Mary grinned at him, and just as she did, the sun rose higher, and it seemed to Dickon that the whole world was bathed in a beautiful golden light.


	3. Baby Bird

The lyrics at the beginning of each chapter come from either "Jolly Holiday," from _Mary Poppins_ , or "Secret Garden," by Bruce Springsteen. They are certainly very different songs, so I hope this isn't too jarring for readers.

Caesar's Palace Shipping Week 2016 - Day 3: _Cry_

* * *

 _She'll let you come just far enough_  
 _So you know she's really there_

Mary still remembered the first time that she'd seen old Ben Weatherstaff smile. She remembered how it had softened his hard eyes and changed his whole face, until he looked almost like a different person. And she remembered her own happy surprise at seeing him smile.

She had quite a different feeling of surprise, the first time that she saw Dickon looking sad.

The three of them were in the garden one early summer afternoon, sprawled out on the grass after playing tag and ball. Dickon had gotten up and moved a little away from Mary and Colin, towards a birch tree near the garden wall. Mary thought that he must be getting a better look at some plant, until she turned and caught sight of his face. Dickon usually looked so cheerful, but now he was looking down at the ground with such a somber expression that Mary's stomach flip-flopped.

"Dickon?" she called, scrambling to her feet. "What is it? What's the matter?"

"'Tis a baby bird, a robin," he answered softly, and for one fleeting moment, Mary was excited. A baby bird! Dickon knew how to care for any baby animal. She imagined them feeding it grass (or seeds or whatever baby birds eat; why, she wouldn't even mind feeding it worms) and taking care of it and —

But then, in the next moment, Dickon added, "It must've fallen from the nest."

Mary and Colin reached him, and there, lying on the ground near his feet, they saw the dead baby bird. It was smaller than the palm of Mary's hand, with downy feathers that would never fly, and tiny legs like twigs tucked up under its body. They stared in silence, until Dickon bent down, plucked off a wide butterbur leaf from nearby, and calmly began folding the dead little bird up inside it.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked Colin, who was wide-eyed and twitchy again.

"Bury it," Dickon answered. "I bury the dead animals I find on a hill near the stream. Pretty place."

"Do you find a lot of them? Dead animals?" Colin pressed, biting at his thumbnail. Mary still said nothing, but strange, unhappy thoughts were tumbling around in her head.

"Nay, not a lot. Just every now and then." He gently set the butterbur leaf, with the dead robin inside it, on the ground and stood up. His eyes, as blue as a robin's egg, shifted to Mary, and he slipped his hand inside hers. Colin hadn't noticed that anything was wrong, but he did.

"Mary?" he asked, very quietly, and the concern in his voice undid her. She burst into great, gulping sobs and crumbled to the grass. She didn't understand just why she was crying, but she couldn't stop.

She thought of the baby robin falling from the tree to its death, and she thought of the earthquake back in India, the earthquake that had killed the two strangers who had been her parents. She remembered how their whole house had trembled and shook until the furniture fell over and books slid from their shelves. She thought of Dickon burying the bird in a pretty place near the stream, and she suddenly realized that her own parents were buried far away in India. It hadn't occurred to her until just now that she couldn't visit her parents' graves, and that made her cry even harder.

"It wasn't b-because I had _them_ p-put away," she choked out between her sobs, and she found herself talking into Dickon's shoulder. How long had she been crying? Colin just stood there awkwardly — _he_ was usually the one who cried and carried on, and he didn't know how to react when somebody else did — but Dickon knew what to do. He'd gotten down on the ground with her and taken her into his arms. Mary clung to him as if her life depended on it. "It wasn't because _I_ didn't want anything to d-do with _them_."

"Aye," Dickon whispered in her ear, and he brought one hand up to stroke her hair. "'Twasn't thy fault, Mary."

She sniffled, and her sobs tapered a bit. "Dickon, did it — was it... very bad for the robin?" she stammered.

Dickon shook his head. "Nay, it didn't even have time to feel a thing," he said calmly, and that made her feel better.

Colin knelt down close to them and put one hand on her shoulder and one hand on Dickon's. "We could all bury it together if you like, Mary," he offered. "Couldn't we, Dickon? And say a prayer over it. Would that make you feel better?"

Mary nodded and sniffled again, but she stayed there on the ground with Dickon for a moment longer, their arms tight around each other, and she remembered thinking that she could never love anyone else in her whole life as she loved him.


	4. Gentleman

This chapter was a lot of fun to write. It's also one of the few places where this story diverts from the 1993 film, since it features Archibald Craven's doctor brother Neville, who was omitted from that production.

Caesar's Palace Shipping Week 2016 - Day 4: _Announce_

* * *

 _When Mary holds your hand, you feel so grand  
Your heart starts beating like a big brass band  
_

As the summer days grew longer, the weather grew hotter. As much as they loved their garden, Mary and Colin couldn't stay in it all day long, as they had in the springtime. In the afternoons, when the sun beat down from its hottest, highest point in the sky, they retreated to the shady cool of indoors to drink lemonade and play indoor games. Dickon had always spent more time outdoors than in, but often he came with them. Mary remembered her old feeling that Dickon must be part fairy or angel, or some sort of magical creature, because the weather never seemed to effect him. "Eh, the heat never bothered me, anyway," he shrugged simply, when Colin asked him how he could bear the sun beating down on him.

One June day, the three of them came running through the main door of the manor, all sweating and red-faced, but when Mary saw who was in the parlor, she stopped short. Dickon bumped into her behind, and Colin into him, and all of them nearly fell over.

There in the parlor, talking to Lord Craven, was his brother, the doctor. He hadn't visited Misselthwaite since the spring, when Colin had begun venturing outside and growing stronger, and his former patient wasn't happy to see him again now. He backed away a bit, shifty-eyed and suspicious as ever.

But the doctor didn't seem to notice. "Colin, my boy!" he exclaimed. "Your father was just telling me how much your health has improved since I saw you last, and I almost didn't believe him, but look at you! You look almost a different lad. But you do seem very sweaty — have you been getting enough to drink? Proper hydration is very important on hot days like this, you know."

"Yes, Uncle," Colin said tightly.

He ignored Dickon, standing there with them, turned to Mary, and went on, "And your cousin... Mary, isn't it? Why, she looks very much like Lilias, doesn't she, Archibald?"

Now Mary narrowed her eyes at him. Her aunt Lilias and her mother had been identical twins. If she looked like her aunt, then she looked like her mother too, and she didn't want to be like her mother in any way.

"Thank you," she forced herself to say, and then she looked at Lord Craven. "Uncle, may we be excused? We were going to go up to my room to play."

"Of course you may," he nodded, smiling, but as soon as he said the words, Dr. Craven guffawed and nudged him.

"I don't know, Archibald," he said loudly, looking at Dickon. "Letting this stable-boy into your niece's bedroom?"

He guffawed again, and Mary clenched her fists. She didn't understand what he meant about Dickon being in her bedroom, but she was furious at the thought that Dickon — _Dickon_ , the most marvelous boy she'd ever known! — could possibly be some common stable-boy.

"Colin, you go with them and keep an eye on him, all right?" Dr. Craven went on, and Colin shifted awkwardly.

Of the three children, Dickon was the only one who fully understood what the doctor was implying, but his words didn't make him angry or awkward. He simply stood up very straight and stepped closer to the man. Mary and Colin were amazed by how grown-up he sounded as he said in a low voice, "I'm a gentleman, sir, and if thou're one too, thou wilt apologize to Miss Mary right now."

Dr. Craven guffawed again, as if Dickon were joking, but his laughter was cut short by the serious look on his brother's face. Lord Craven said nothing, but he put one hand on Dickon's shoulder supportively, until the doctor shuffled his feet, coughed, mumbled something like, "Yes, well... didn't mean any offense..."

A few minutes later, as they hurried upstairs, Mary slipped her hand into Dickon's and smiled at him — that private, sideways smile, the one that she only ever gave to him — and Dickon's heart beat so hard that he thought it might burst right out of his chest.


	5. Summer Night

Caesar's Palace Shipping Week 2016: _Answer_

* * *

 _She'll let you in her house_  
 _If you come knockin' late at night_

Autumn settled over the moors — Mary's first autumn at Misselthwaite, and she was enchanted by the changing of the seasons, something that she'd never seen in India. She could not get her fill of staring at the orange and red leaves on the trees, and she marveled at how much cooler the earth felt against her hands when she worked in the garden with Dickon. Dickon had seen autumn come and go all his life, yet he delighted in it with Mary as if it were his first time, too. He showed her where to find nuts, and they collected the prettiest leaves together.

Mary loved seeing the season change, and she loved too seeing the changes in her uncle. Ever since that spring day when he'd found them playing in the secret garden, Lord Craven smiled more, went away less, and spent time with her and Colin often. It was like watching a frozen lake thaw, Mary thought — or like having a real father. He bought them toys and books, and the more books that he bought her, the more Mary discovered how much she loved to read.

Often now Mary wanted to bring a book outside with her; it would be so pleasant to sit on the grass and read outside... but she never did it. Dickon didn't like to read. He knew how, of course, but he never read just for the fun of it like Mary did. She had never once seen him with a book in his hands, and she didn't want to have any interests that he didn't share.

One night, she was in her room, up later than usual because she couldn't stop reading _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ , a new American book that Uncle Craven had just given her. Dorothy had just started down the Yellow Brick Road when Mary heard a faint tapping at her window. When she looked and saw Dickon's face outside the glass, her jaw dropped.

Mary's room was on the second floor — how could Dickon be outside her window, and in the middle of the night, no less? Was it true that he was part fairy, or part angel, like she'd thought when they first met? Had he flown up here tonight to show his wings to her at last? Or had she fallen asleep while reading? Could she be dreaming? Mary blinked and rubbed her eyes, but Dickon was still there, so it had to be real.

She crossed the room, unlocked the window, and pushed it open. "Dickon, what... how..."

He grinned at her astonishment. "I'm sorry if I frightened thee. I saw the light still burning in thy window, and I decided to climb up and see what was keeping thee up so late."

A large, orange-tinted moon — a harvest moon, Dickon called it — was hanging low over the moor tonight, and by its light, Mary could see that Dickon was holding onto the rain-pipe that ran down the house beside her window. He had probably clambered up it as easily as a squirrel climbing a tree. Dickon often went out on the moors at night, walking or riding Snow. Just like the cold and heat, the darkness never made any difference to him.

"I've been up reading," Mary told him, leaning on her windowsill with her head outside. "Uncle Craven bought me a book about a girl who gets swept away to a magical place and meets new people and has all sorts of adventures and — and — Dickon?"

"Aye?" Dickon asked.

"I know what I want to be when I grow up, Dickon," she blurted out suddenly.

"Aye, and what's that?"

"I want to be a writer, and write books of my own," Mary answered. It was the first time that she'd told that to anybody, and perhaps the first time that she'd given it thought, but she knew that she spoke from her heart."

"Aye, thou could'st be a fine writer," Dickon smiled. He looked more like an angel than ever, smiling against the dark night sky. A flirefly flashed close by his head, but Mary pretended that it was a shooting star. _Make a wish_.

"Thou could'st write a book about us," Dickon went on, swinging back and forth on the rain-pipe a bit, "about how you came here from India and how we found the secret garden and met Colin and everything."

Despite the cool autumn evening, Mary felt a tingling warmth spread through her. Dickon didn't think that books were silly or a waste time, even though he never read them. If she wanted to be a writer someday, then he wanted it for her.

"I'm going to write about what we're doing right now," Mary answered. "I'll write about you climbing up to my window, and the moon, and the fireflies... and Dickon, if I write it well enough, if I can get the words just right, I could make stay like this. I could write it down and keep us right here, just like this, forever."


	6. Autumn Afternoon

Caesar's Palace Shipping Week 2016: Day 6 - _Reveal_

* * *

 _If you pay the price, she'll let you deep inside_  
 _There's a secret garden she hides_

Dickon was determined to pronounce the word properly, which proved difficult with his Yorkshire accent, so Mary smiled and repeated it slowly for him — _sha-hee took-ra_. By the time Dickon finally said it right, he'd eaten almost the whole bowl of it.

"'Tis delicious, Mary," he said for the third time, licking his fingers. "I never knew thou could cook."

Mary bit her lip, pleased and embarrassed at the same time. "It isn't as good as the kind I had in India. Our servants there used to make it to use up the old bread. They put lots of honey and saffron and pistachios on it, and—" Mary stopped abruptly, overwhelmed by the memory of their old kitchen in India, and the smell of spices. She could almost feel the hot desert air on her face again, even though it was a cool autumn day on Misselthwaite Manor.

Dickon smacked his lips. "Well, thou makes the best _I_ 've ever tasted."

Mary wasn't surprised that he liked shahi tukra. She'd offered some to Colin — truthfully, she'd wanted to test it out on him, before giving any to Dickon — but it had smelled too strange and exotic for him to try it. But Dickon could eat anything. He could eat all the foods that grew wild on the moor. The crabapples that grew down by the stream gave Mary sour stomach if she ate even one, but Dickon could eat them endlessly and never get sick. He could eat the wild onions that grew near the house; sometimes he dug them up, brushed the dirt off, and ate them like apples. He could eat the spicy wild peppers that were too hot for anyone else.

And he was eating Mary's sweet, spicy shahi tukra now, as the two of them sat together on the steps outside the manor house. "Thou learned to make it in India?" he asked her, dragging his spoon along the bottom of the bowl.

Mary nodded. "Well, I didn't really... I mean, our servants there used to make it," she said again, uncertainly, "and I wanted to learn how, because it was my favorite dish, but I didn't want to ask them to teach me — and I didn't think they would have, anyway."

"Why not?"

Mary stared down at the skirt of her dress and began smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. "Oh, nobody ever wanted to do anything with me in India," she said tensely. "They all just wanted me kept out of the way. So I just — just sort of watched the servants whenever they cooked it, and tried to remember what they did."

Her hands were now shaking a bit from sadness and anger as they flew across her skirt. She startled, then stilled, when Dickon set the empty bowl on the ground and laid his calm hands over her wild ones. Mary had never really talked about her life in India with anyone, and Dickon knew that she hadn't just cooked him a meal; she'd also revealed a part of herself that she'd always kept hidden.

"Thank thee, Mary," he said, and she finally raised her eyes from her skirt to look at him. "No lady's ever gone to the trouble to cook something for just me before."

"You've given me so much," she whispered, smiling back at him.


End file.
